


in your blood and in your bones

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Monster fic, some minor gore?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: four times Yassen's monstrosity reveals itself
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	in your blood and in your bones

**Author's Note:**

> monster!yassen has been on my mind endlessly for the last few days so of course i had to write something for it

He shivers in the cold, early spring air. He’s been walking all day, and the sun has long since set, taking with it any meager warmth he might have enjoyed. Now, all that’s left is a bitter, aching cold. 

He sniffles; wiping his nose on the sleeve of his dusty jacket. At least, he reflects, he’s wearing his Young Pioneers uniform, and the boots to go with. Otherwise, the cold would be a lot worse. 

Finally, exhaustion overcomes him; and he has to sit down on the ground and rest. Not sleep—not yet, not out in the open. There’s a copse of trees in the distance—he can sleep once he gets to them. 

The ground is cold, too, even through his jeans; and hard and uncomfortable. For the umpteenth time, he finds himself wishing for the roll out floor beds they had in their home in Estrov. 

Longing hits him like what he imagines a freight train might feel like; rampaging through his slim frame; leaving him gasping and broken and in tears, knocked back onto the ground. As he lays there, he remembers the image of his father, slumped on the ground, as if sleeping— _ no, _ Yasha realises, suddenly,  _ dead. _ His father had been dead. 

In the moment, it had seemed too bizarre to consider; but now, with the adrenaline worn off, he sees the truth for what it is; laying there, on the cold, hard ground, it hits him: that everyone in his village, in his  _ home, _ is probably dead.

He swallows thickly. Leo, his grandmother, Mister Vladimov...all dead, now. 

The stars shine brightly down on him; unaware, or perhaps, simply uncaring, of what he has survived. They twinkle like beacons, and Yasha remembers his lessons on how to navigate by them; automatically finds himself locating the North Star.

He feels—sick, suddenly; like his skin is crawling; and he rolls over onto his side, staring at the ground; willing himself to get up. He doesn’t; lays there for an indeterminable amount of time, before, suddenly, he finds his breaths growing ragged.

His head is full to the brim; and all he can hear is a deep  _ thrum _ , somewhere deep within him; in his blood and in his bones; behind his jaws and under his fingers.

The air around him seems thick; soupy and hot rather than cold and refreshing; and no matter how hard he sucks in, he can’t seem to get enough oxygen. His lungs burn, and suddenly, he remembers the times when Leo would hold his head under the water for a bit too long when they were young, and he’d come to the surface sputtering, terrified that he’d been about to drown.

Except that doesn’t make any sense—he’s on land, not in the water. How can he be drowning?

Distantly, he’s aware that he’s curled up into a foetal position; knees drawn up to his chest; panting in the suddenly burning night air. His breaths come out in clouds; white and thick enough that they obscure his vision for a moment.

A part of him registers how odd that is; most of him is just in pain.

After a long, long time—what seems like eons—the pain passes; leaving him shivering on the ground, drawing in sharp gasps of air, trying to make up for the minutes, or maybe hours, spent unable to breathe properly.

Finally, he rises on shaking limbs, and begins on a stumbling path towards the woods.

When he finally reaches the tree-line, the sun has begun to peak above the horizon; bathing everything in an almost ethereal blue; the foliage letting the light through in dappled patterns that spill over him like creek water over rocks.

He glances down at himself, and winces. His boots are muddied, and his pants and jacket are both covered in dirt—probably from laying on the ground. He wonders, briefly, if the pain was a reaction to the inoculation that his mother gave him—it makes sense. 

Yasha yawns widely; leaning against a tree.  _ At least the pain is gone now, _ he thinks. Sliding down to the forest floor, he murmurs a quick apology as he pulls off his jacket and balls it up to function as a makeshift pillow.

It’s not the most comfortable thing ever, but it’s better than nothing; and he finds himself slowly drifting off; shivering subsiding as he falls into sleep, no longer worried about the past, or the future.

When he wakens, it’s to the sound of bird calls. They permeate the forest, coming from every direction. Some of them, he recognises; others remain a mystery to him. They do create a slightly calming background noise as he treks through the trees, though.

Eyes fixed on the trees ahead of him, he doesn’t notice the thicket of tree roots until too late; and they send him to the ground with a yelp of surprised, which turns into a moan of pain as he lands on a spine-covered bush.

Picking himself up gingerly, he inspects his arm; finding multiple large spines embedded halfway into his flesh. With a grimace, he reaches to pull the first one out—and drops it to the ground, letting out a shocked gasp, when thick, black liquid wells up in its place rather than red blood.

For a moment, he simply stares, dumbfounded; waiting for it to turn to red; but that doesn’t happen. When he pulls out the other spines, the same thing happens: rather than red blood, the mysterious black liquid pools.

He cautiously swipes a finger in it; finding it to be about the consistency of honey, but slick like oil rather than sticky.

He shudders and wipes his finger on his pants; and then, for good measure, scrubs at his arm with the inside of his jacket to get rid of the rest of the liquid. Thankfully, no more appears—the wounds weren’t as deep as he had suspected, perhaps; and he tugs on his jacket, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground to avoid any more mishaps; and does his best to put the unsettling event out of his mind for good.

He reaches the other side of the woods by sunhigh; and the relief at seeing civilisation is almost enough for him to forget about the black liquid.

* * *

The gun is heavy in his palm; the bullets cold. He places them in with a practiced efficiency born of hundreds of hours of doing it; his fingers deft in their movements. One, two, three, four, five. He pauses for a moment, allowing the motionlessness to hang between them.

Sharkovsky watches him in what Yassen can only assume is morbid fascination. His beady, dark eyes are as malignant as ever, but there’s something in them—curiosity, mingled with a hint of fear. “You have come for revenge, then?” he says; his tone shaking slightly. Despite his best efforts, his fear shows. Perhaps not to anyone else, but to Yassen, who has been trained in the art of reading body language, it’s practically a neon sign.

He smiles; thin and flat; spins the chamber. “No,” he says. “Not revenge. Completion. Completion of what you started five years ago. Of what you started when you told a fourteen year old boy, terrified and alone, to hold a gun to his head and pull the trigger.”

Confusion clouds the other’s eyes; and on the armrest of his wheelchair, his fingers twitch. “What—?”

Yassen breathes; once, in, even; and then raises the gun to the underside of his jaw; eyes open, now. If he is to die, he will not go with indignity.

Finger steady, he pulls the trigger.

_ Cli-ick. _

The sound is as loud as any gunshot. Somehow, he’s not surprised; has already accepted that this is how it happens. That his future is laid out before him, now.

Sharkovsky’s eyes are filled with terror now. “You’re mad,” he whispers.

This time, Yassen’s smile is darker. “I am what you made me,” he replies; and, quick as a viper, the gun is out from beneath his jaw, and pointing towards Sharkovsky’s head. Already, the tip is smoking; blood running down the other man’s face.

His expression is—almost comical. His mouth is open in an  _ o, _ a moue of surprise; his eyes wide. In the center of his forehead, there is a neat, perfectly circular, bullet hole. Behind him, brain matter and blood have sprayed onto the wall.

Yassen notes this all, detached, uncaring. This is what has happened; and there is no use in dwelling on it for any length of time.

There’s a creak behind him; and he whips around; expecting to see Sharkovsky’s security team, alerted by the gunshot. Instead, a familiar young man, dressed in a black dinner jacket, tie loose around his neck, stands in the doorway. Ivan Sharkovsky.

He recognises Yassen; eyes widening. “ _ Yassen, _ ” he breathes; and starts to speak again; but it’s cut short by another  _ crack _ ; and then two more. Two in the heart, one in the head. Excessive, perhaps, but better safe than sorry. He collapses to the ground in a heap.

Yassen sidesteps him on the way out. It’s child’s play to exit the dacha without being detected; the guards are too busy muddling about, alarmed and disorientated by the gunshots, to notice a small figure slipping out from the window in the back and onto the roof of the shed, before leaping over the low wall and to the ground on the other side.

He picks his way through the few people who are outside. There’s not many of them, given the late hour; but he instinctively finds himself cataloguing them as potential targets. A short, stout woman, wearing a coat with a thick fur collar, or a tall, slender man, his shoes dark and shiny—if he were to bump into one of them, fingers slipping into their pockets, what would he find? A wallet stuffed full of roubles for the man, perhaps, and a pair of diamond earrings for the woman.

He shakes himself. No. He will not get sidetracked by inconsequential things.

The woman at the front desk of the hotel greets him cheerily as he steps through the golden double doors. He ignores her; making for the staircase and quickly making his way up to the second floor. Having disposed of the gun in a river on the way to the hotel, he feels bereft—though by no means vulnerable. He could still take six armed men on his own, even without the pistol.

His skin itches suddenly; like it’s brushed against nettle; and it only gets worse with each step he takes. By the time he gets to his room, he’s burning. 

He makes his way into the bathroom; turns on the shower; stands beneath the cold water fully clothed. It soothes the burning sensation for a few moments, but then it returns tenfold. His nails feel like they’ve been ripped from his fingers.

Despite the cold water, the glass walls of the shower are fogging up; and he suddenly realises that steamy water vapour is rising from his skin—the water isn’t even hitting it before it evaporates.

Suddenly off balance, he stumbles; clawing at the door of the shower, desperate to get out; manages to open the door; falls to the floor in his attempts to get out. His head rings; and when he looks down at his hands, black blood oozes from the joints of his fingers and his wrists; thick and oily; drips to the floor, smearing as he scrambles to try and rise.

The pain worsens, keeping him bound to the floor; hot and burning and relentless. His hands are covered in black now, his skin obscured by blood. A cloyingly sweet scent permeates the air.

He wishes, suddenly, that he had the gun with him—there was one more bullet left in it.

Instead, he remains, silently writhing, on the floor, without any relief in sight.

Eternities pass; and finally, slowly, the pain ebbs away, bit by painful bit. He manages to drag himself off the floor. The mirror has fogged up, and he wipes at it, leaving smears of black in the wake of his hand; but it clears away the condensation decently well.

For a moment, he’s seized with a terror for what he’ll see; but all that stares back at him is his own face—thinner and gaunter, the proportions slightly off, but his own. Bloody tear tracks have run down his face, leaving black blood dried in their wake; and his hair is sticking up in each and every direction. He looks up at the mirror again; notices that he can see the top of it without craning his neck anymore—a burst of height, perhaps?

When he looks back down, he finds the rest of him is similarly covered in blood, having soaked through his clothes in places.

He swallows thickly. The clothes will have to be disposed of. 

He peels them off with shaking hands and clambers back into the shower. This time, the freezing water pours over his skin, blackened water swirling down the drain.

* * *

He’s on an assignment when it happens; the stabbing pain radiating up from the soles of his feet to the tips of his fingers. He curses it quietly, and then takes the riffle out of the duffle bag that’s sat next to him on the roof; deftly slots the pieces together.

Despite the pain, his fingers don’t hesitate; don’t shake. Outwardly, he’s just as calm as he was moments before. Inwardly, he’s panicking. 

There’s no knowing how long he has before he’s incapacitated, but he’d give it ten minutes at the outside; and his target has yet to appear in the café in the building across the street, despite the fact that he was supposed to be there fifteen minutes before. 

The pain lances through him again, and he bites his tongue; fingers tightening into fists, knuckles white. He has to keep it together until the end of the job.

Finally, the target appears, his garish green shirt visible even from a distance. Yassen takes a breath, steadying himself, and crouches, peering through the scope; adjusts it as the man sits in his chair. 

The riffle fires almost silently in comparison to the guns he usually uses; the bullet whizzing through the air; and then a tiny hole appears in the glass of the building across the street, and the man slumps in his chair. Muted screams fill the air at the sight of blood spurting from his throat, covering himself and the area around him.

Yassen quickly begins to dismantle the riffle, packing it away into the duffle bag.

He manages to get a few steps before the pain brings him to his knees.

His throat feels like it’s on fire; the skin prickling. He pants harsh breaths, the chilly autumn air fogging up thickly, and he can barely see through it. He finds himself clawing at the skin in panic, as if, somehow, getting rid of it will make it better.

It doesn’t; the blunt nails just exacerbating the pain; and he drops his hands to the ground, the rough concrete biting into the palms of his hands. He tries to breathe evenly, but he can’t seem to draw in a breath.

His throat is parched, and it feels like it’s being stabbed and cracking; and something wet bubbles up in his throat, thick and cloying—blood, he realises, a second later, as a drop falls from his parted lips and hits the ground.

His vision goes blurry and black; speckled with white starbursts; and he opens his mouth, and screams, and screams, and screams.

A long, long time later, the pain recedes. His throat, sore from screaming, no longer burns. His palms are red from the cement digging into them, and his fingers are black with blood from clawing at his neck. His voice has gone hoarse—though he’s fairly certain his screaming was voiceless.

He drags himself to his feet, and picks up the duffel bag, making his way to the door and taking the stairs down to the lobby.

On the way down, he pulls the collar of his turtleneck up to hide the scratch marks; tugs the collar of the jacket he’s wearing closer around his neck. It must do the trick adequately, because no one gives him a second look at he leaves the lobby, making his way out onto the busy street.

His hotel is a fifteen minute walk away; and his limbs, long and oddly proportioned ever since the last incident, are heavy, but he forces himself to take step after step regardless; and before he knows it, he’s standing in front of his room.

He checks the door handle quickly, finding no fingerprints; checks the hair he placed under the door, finding it undisturbed. When he enters, his suitcase is exactly where he left it, forty-five centimeters from either wall, positioned in the corner.

He sets the duffel bag down at the end of the bed, and opens the suitcase, pulling out a sleek laptop, and types in a seventeen character code. On the screen, a box appears, prompting him for a second code, which he enters rapidly.

The box disappears, leaving behind a chat window.

A singular message is on the screen. _ Mission status? _

_ Successful, _ he types, and closes the chat window; knowing that, at that moment, one and a half million euros are being transferred to his offshore account.

He picks up the remote and flicks on the news; only half paying attention as he makes his way to the full length mirror; opening his mouth wide and peering into the mirror. 

He reels back in shock at the sight that greets him. Bloodied, needle-like teeth protrude from the depths of his throat, and when he swallows, they bob slightly. He opens his jaw as wide as he can, in an attempt to get a better look at it; and suddenly, they shoot forward, snapping at the air for a few moments before retracting.

Yassen’s body convulses in what he realises a second later is a full-body shudder of revulsion. Covered in blood, they once again sit at the back of his throat, waiting.

His attention is ripped away from the horror inhabiting his mouth by the news anchor’s voice a moment later, though. “—a military plane exploded over France this morning,” she says, voice slightly tinny due to the bad reception. “All of the members on board were killed—four crew members, and two civilians, John and Helen Rider, as identified by their dental records.”

Yassen closes his eyes, sliding to the floor. This time, when he shudders, it’s not disgust.

* * *

The instant Alex’s friend speaks, Yassen knows what’s going to happen. Her tone is impudent; bordering on scornful; her eyes full of loathing.

Cray stares at her for a long moment, before he sneers, “I’ve had enough of these guttersnipes. They’re not amusing me anymore.” And then, as expected, he turns to Yassen. “Kill them.”

“I do not kill children,” Yassen says; flatly.

It’s not true, of course. He’s killed children before. Not many, and not recently, but he has. Mostly as collateral damage, when cleaning up after killing their parents, but once he was assigned a two million pound hit on a seven year old. 

He had done the job. Pulled the trigger.

So yes; it is, technically, a lie. But then, what is his business but that of lies? There’s hardly anything true left about him anymore.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alex staring; wide-eyed, and confused. Remembers saying the same thing, before, on the Fer de Lance.  _ I do not kill children. _ Perhaps less of a lie, and more of a commitment.

“What are you saying?” Cray demands; predictably. Were it not for his impeccable self control, Yassen would sigh. Predictability is a habit that he hates, especially in others. 

“There is no need for this,” he says. “Take them with us. They can hardly do any harm.” That’s also not true—he knows first hand the harm Alex can do. But Cray hardly needs to have that impressed upon him.

“Why on Earth would I want to take them all the way to  _ Russia? _ ”

“We can lock them in one of the cabins,” Yassen reasons. “You don’t even need to see them.”

Cray’s eyes are flinty. “Mister Gregorovich...if you don’t kill them, I will.”

Yassen makes no move to do as ordered. “All right, all right!” Cray snaps, “I thought I was supposed to be in charge, but I guess we can do it this way too.”

Yassen feels a momentary pang of regret for Alex—his friend will take the bullet first, he’s sure.

It’s that moment of emotion that blinds him to the subtle tells in Cray’s actions; the slight adjustment of his stance, the tell tale signs that he’s about to swing around. He’s so blinded, in fact, that he doesn’t even realise what’s happening until he looks down and finds black blooming across his abdomen. 

“I’m sorry, Mister Gregorovich,” Cray says, gleefully. “You’re  _ fired. _ ”

As if in slow motion, Yassen crumples against the wall. Watches, through a haze, as the second shot rings out; and sees Alex thrown across the cabin. Cray turns the gun on Alex’s friend, and prepares to fire a third time—

And Yassen watches, in vague astonishment, as his hand is jerked back; the gun aimed towards the ceiling. Suddenly, Alex is on top of Cray; the two of them tussling.

Yassen’s attention is dragged away by the persistent pain radiating through his body. No longer confined to his torso, his entire being feels like it’s on fire. It doesn’t make any sense, for a moment, before he looks down and sees thick, black liquid pooling on the floor, and remembers.

Of course. Of all the times for a change, it would be now, as he’s laying, dying, inside a high class aeroplane.

He nearly laughs; barely holding it in; and then can’t, any more, and begins to wheeze, the sound horrible and guttural. 

His skin burns; thousands of pinpricks of pain beneath the surface of the flesh; and he wonders what it will be this time. Feeling the second, horrible set of jaws lurking in his throat, he wonders if it will be more teeth—maybe thousands of little mouths splitting open across his skin, blood running from the gashes.

He watches as the transformation takes place; slow and painful. For a long, long time, the skin simply burns; and then thin lines, like scars, appear; perfectly straight, but randomly placed; blood leaking from them a few seconds later as they begin to open.

Suddenly, his perception of the area around him changes; becoming multifaceted, the colours bleeding slightly; and he blinks, irritably, trying to clear his vision—and nearly lets out a primal sound of horror as one of the lines tears open and reveals a single, icy-blue, eye.

He watches in mute fascinatin as the others rip open; dozens of eyes of various sizes appearing on his arm. He suspects that, were he wearing shorter pants, he would be able to see them on his legs too. 

In the corner of his vision, he spots a familiar, dark blonde figure sprawled across the floor. “Alex...”

The boy’s head whips around; and when he spots Yassen, he blanches. “Oh,  _ god. _ What the hell. What the  _ hell—? _ ”

Yassen interrupts him. “Please...” he manages, before having to take another long, shuddering breath to manage more words. Now, as he lays there dying, only a few things matter. “What...happened to Cray?”

Alex’s answer is terse; his voice shaking slightly. His gaze is riveted to Yassen’s arm, and he looks like he’s going to be sick. “He went off the trolley.”

“...dead?”

“Very.”

Yassen nods. “I knew it was a mistake to work for him. I knew.” He fights for breath; wheezing slightly. The eyes flutter. “There is something I have to tell you, Alex,” he says; doing his best to speak normally. It is vital that Alex understands him. This is information that he has held close to his chest for years, but now, the boy must know. “I couldn’t kill you. I would never have killed you. Because...you see, Alex...your father and I...” He draws another breath; this one more laboured. 

Alex’s gaze has swung up to meet his own; his face still pale; and Yassen continues. “He and I...we worked together.”

“He worked with you?” Confusion clouds the boy’s gaze. “You mean...as a spy?”

He shakes his head; the motion painful; throwing the his sight into a tailspin for a moment, making everything float, triplicated, before it settles. “Not a spy, no, Alex. He was...a killer. Like me. He was...” he pauses; fondness bursting in his chest. “He was the very best. The best in the world. I knew him when I was nineteen. He taught me—”

“No!” Alex shakes his head. “I don’t believe you! My father wasn’t a killer. He—he couldn’t have been!” Desperation; denial. Yassen hopes that, soon, it will give away to acceptance.

“Why would I lie?” It’s rhetorical; and he continues before Alex can open his mouth to try and rebut it. “You have to know.” He reaches out, weakly, placing his hand on Alex’s arm. The boy flinches away from the touch, but Yassen doesn’t let go. With his other hand, he gestures to the scar on his throat. “Your father, he did this. He saved my life. In many ways...you are so very much like him. I am...” he struggles with the words for a moment, before settling. “I am glad that you are here with me now.”

Terror, horror, and disbelief war across the boy’s face. 

Yassen’s lungs are burning. His head feels light. He doesn’t have much time left. The boy must know. 

“If you don’t believe me, go to Venice. Find SCORPIA, and you will find your destiny...” 

The final words are a whisper; and his eyes, leaden, flutter shut.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
